I first met Siobhan Vivian in a town called Lititz in the dark of a hotel restaurant. It was after hours; the crowd was gone. She was there with her best friends, her writing friends, each a lit star in her own right. They were a raucous foursome, those girls at the other table, and I was feeling quiet, and besides, I was there with my husband, a man now nearly famous for avoiding what is known in my circles as lit talk.
Still, Siobhan insisted that we join them at her table. She talked, they talked, I listened. By the end of the night and a bottle of wine, I was talking, too. More than talking, I was laughing.
In the years since, Siobhan and I have found each other in Florida, say, or in the mire of Facebook. I have watched her career take off, her books earn praise; I have cheered her on. Last week, when I realized that Siobhan was in my city for
the Public Library Association meeting, I set off to find her once more. We missed each other by minutes, no more. We talked by phone instead.
We want the people we care about to write good books so that we can say—with all our hearts—
I love it. I am saying here, with all my heart, that I love Siobhan Vivian's new book, THE LIST, which is due out in early April, near my birthday (a good omen), and which tackles big issues—self worth, discrimination, vulnerability, beauty and all that beauty isn't.
There is so much that beauty isn't.
The premise is delivered in the very first lines:
For as long as anyone can remember, the students of Mount Washington High have arrived at school on the last Monday in September to find a list naming the prettiest and the ugliest girl in each grade.
This year will be no different.
Eight girls, then—four named pretty, four named ugly—and with thoughtful, third-person omniscience their stories get told. It's a risky proposition, a novel that could only work if Siobhan went beyond stereotype and delivered fresh tales, if she made us think newly, if she hinged the whole thing around a searing who-dunnit, and if she wrote the heck out of every sentence.
All this she does. Siobhan is smart. She pays attention. To how teens think and talk, to the details that will matter to those who pick up THE LIST looking for some semblance of herself, or of
them. Siobhan's books resonate with teens because she has never forgotten what it feels like to be one, and because, on her tours with other books, she has stopped to ask the teens she meets what is going on right now, what is real right now, what is shaping young lives. She has asked, and she has listened, and with compassion she has reached back out, writing a novel that is equal parts story and salve. She's still inviting people to her table, that Siobhan Vivian. I'm glad to sit there with her.
Several years ago I got the bright idea to make a list of books I'd always meant to read, books I felt I should read, and books I had loved and wanted to re-read. I combed through my mental files and also got suggestions from commenters on what I should include. Because I am a creative person and work with words for a living, I called this list The LIST. (#genius)
All told, The LIST was 54 books long. A mix of classic and modern, children's and adult, fiction and nonfiction, it introduced me to some wonderful books, some surprising favorites, and a few old friends. Tragically, I will never get back the 37 hours I spent reading Madame Bovary and Anna Karenina.
As of today, I have read 51 1/2 books from The LIST (Sophie's World, you were just not compelling enough to finish). Those last few books have been sitting there for six months now, silently mocking me from the sidebar like some hypertext Nelson Muntz.
So as of today, I am officially abandoning The LIST. Consider it what I'm giving up for Lent. It's been a good run, anyway. Someday I'm sure I'll re-read Where the Red Fern Grows; I'm less confident I'll give Stephen Daedalus or Tocqueville a chance.
I'm currently putting together a (much shorter) list of middle-grade and YA books that I adored on first reading. As is my wont, however (fast reader = superficial reader), I remember little about most of these books now, except that I loved them. Stay tuned for The Great Re-Read, coming to a sidebar near you in the not-too-distant future.
She seems like a stand-
up dame, but holy heck, the
MONEY! Staggering.
#50 on The Frakking LIST.
Books read: 7 (appalling)
Pages read: 2297 (respectable)
Books from The LIST brought: 3 (ambitious?)
Books from The LIST read: 1 (pathetic)
Days until next beach vacation: 357 (sigh)
emilyreads will
finish the goddamn LIST on
vacation this year.
Roundup to come in early August.
Three is the new two,
isn't it? Thanks for another
year of reading.
Another year, 180 more posts. But I still haven't finished the blankety-blank list. [shakes fist at sky] Curse you, Joyce and Tocqueville!
The ladies in red
are reduced to vessels of
expansion. Chilling.
#49 on The LIST.
One man's search for God:
knocks you upside the head with
painful, searing prose.
#47 on The LIST.
#44 on The LIST.
Note: To be fair, the version I listened to was abridged. Perhaps the full text is more exciting.
Twain's classic captures
the best and worst of the
American spirit.
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. 1884, Charles Webster & Co., 366 pages.
#41 on The LIST, even though it wasn't there before, because it should've been, and hey, it's my LIST. Listened to on a
Playaway device.
If I hear "the child
of morning, rosy-fingered
dawn" one more time, I'll . . .
#35 on The LIST.
Two blowhards meet cute
in Austen's classic rom-com.
Paging Colin Firth . . .
#33 on The LIST.
Boy meets girl; boy gets
girl; girl meets train. Three weeks of
my life lost, all lost.
Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. Originally serialized in Russian between 1875 and 1877, 754 pages.
#32 on The LIST.
Nothing much happens --
but in that nothing lies the
whole, wide, messy world.
#31 on The LIST.
A boon to teenage
girls everywhere . . . but a bane
to poor guys named Ralph.
#30 on The LIST.
She affronts ev'ry
bone in my hick, prudish bod.
Good God, what a life.
#29 on The LIST.
War! What is it good
for? Absolutely nothing.
So it goes, Billy.
#28 on The LIST.
EDITED TO ADD: Hey, this is my 300th post!
La Bloga is a collaborative blog devoted to the discussion of Chicana Chicano Literature, Chicana Chicano Writers, Chicana Chicano Fiction, Children's Literature, News, Views, Reviews. I was drawn to it this morning due to the article, Living To Tell the Story: The Authentic Latino Immigrant Experience in Picture Books (Part 1) by René Colato Laínez.
Maybe it also had something to do with the fact that I'm reading Cellophane by Marie Arana, which somehow reminds me of 100 Year of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I have to admit, I picked the book out in the library due to it's cover, and it has not let me down.
Oooh. And I will put this on my 'list' of books to be read. Oh, I made a funny. And that town is not really called lititz is it? I'm so immature...
I think its essential for writers in the YA genre to talk to teens and to find out what is going on now...wonderful that you all connected...
Beth, I hear you about husbands avoiding Lit talk...mine does the same...but book club once a month gives me that much needed stress break from motherhood and full time work, plus blogging reviews